Honoris Causa: For The Sake Of Honour
by WomanWarrior
Summary: A oneshot character study of Draco. Who is he? Why is he the person he is? Lots of angst and a Death Eater Draco.


_**Disclaimer:** Well, I had a nice dream the other night, involving me being JKR. Unfortunately, it was a dream that I woke up from. And since I woke up, I don't think that I own any of this, with the exception of the plot._

_**Author's Note:** This is way different from my usual style of writing. I've decided to expand my horizons, try something new. This means that I am actually writing about one of my least favorite characters – none other than Draco Malfoy. I hope that I have not portrayed him in too good of a light._

_**This story is dedicated to my amazing friend, Sarah. Thank you for all your time, superior editing skill, and always listening to me. I'm sure this was a nice change for you from the Harry/Ginny and Ron/Hermione fics I love so much!**_

_There's no way out, and I know it. I know it perfectly well._ Draco yanked the sleeve of his robes back over the skull-and-serpent Death Eater insignia on his forearm. He'd chosen it – yet he hated it. It tied him to something that he knew, deep inside him, could not last. Not even his Lord could bring the Dark to triumph over Light. It was never meant to be. As much as he was a believer in the forces of the Dark, one only needed to look back through history – each and every truly evil wizard had been vanquished. Some took longer to defeat than others, but it always happened.

_And look,_ he thought, _it's ruined my life. As soon as He's gone, if I'm not dead, I'll be in Azkaban and my life will be meaningless. If you somehow manage to escape, you'll be a fugitive for a while, and they'll catch you anyways._ Of course, there was another option. But he couldn't even think it. Thinking it was tantamount to treason.

"Honoris causa," he told himself. _For the sake of honor. _It was the only reason he'd agreed to be branded, the only reason he'd chosen the worst possible path. Family honor was everything: if not to Draco, then at least to his father. Lucius was a perfectionist, and could not stand to have even the smallest tarnish on his reputation among the Dark forces. And he could never humiliate his father. No matter how meaningless and petty his life seemed, he would not dare cross his father's wishes. His father and the Dark Lord himself would beat him, curse him with the Cruciatus, and generally make his life hell on earth.

He was holed up in the Malfoy family home. It was not the stronghold that it had once been – the Ministry was conducting raids more and more frequently, and his father was considering moving. The only reason that they had stayed so long was for Narcissa. His mother's health was slowly failing. She was wasting away from a combination of depression and a cancer that not even magic could fight back for long. Draco suspected that she, too, knew that they could not win the war, although his father continued to insist that the Potter bastard was not worthy of the Dark Lord's attentions, and they would vanquish the Light with minimal loss to their group. The First War had simply been a mess of botched plans and things gone wrong. Now, there was no prophecy detailing that the Dark Lord would mark someone as his equal – his equal had already been marked. It was almost laughable that his equal was a sixteen-year-old boy.

The desk he sat in front of nearly filled the tiny secret room, which had been installed just last week. The Dark Lord continually needed a new place to keep classified information and sensitive documents. It was reachable only by a maze of tunnels underground and was hidden by ancient and dark magic. With a sudden fit of anger, he crumpled the sheet of parchment he'd been scribbling on for the last several minutes and set it to burning with a prod from his wand.

He massaged his temples before grabbing another piece of parchment and starting over. It was too much work and his eyes ached. A report was always needed on something, and it was his job to provide them in a timely manner. The one prior to this had taken him what seemed like years. The information promised had not been forthcoming, and when it had arrived, the writing was unclear, the statistics miserably calculated. Without warning, the door banged open.

"Draco," his father greeted him coldly.

"Father," he returned, showing no emotion, although his hand had automatically gone to his wand.

"Do you have the report on the risings of the opposition for me? Our Master is expecting it."

Looking down, he replied, "No, sir, I don't. I will have it done shortly."

"See that you do!" Malfoy's already pale face whitened further, and Draco had to tread carefully. He watched in silence for a split second as his father's jaw worked, muscles tightening steadily. The elder's hands clenched and unclenched steadily.

"I'm sorry, Father. I know you expected more from me. I'm just a little tired."

Even before it happened, he realized that he should not have added that last sentence. It was uncharacteristic of him to slip like that – he'd learned years ago to appease his father.

The elder Malfoy reached for his wand. "_Crucio!_" he screamed, his face livid. After a few moments of watching his son writhe on the floor, he broke the connection with a jerk of his hand. "See that you get it to me soon." With that, he swept out of the room, shutting the door hard behind him.

Draco pulled himself weakly into the chair again, burying his face in his hands. He hated his father for that. More then he'd ever hated him, no matter how many times he'd been hit as a child. As he grew older, the trends turned from beatings to curses. Nothing he could do was good enough, and every mistake was always ground into his head. The only way to avoid the punishment was to follow along with everything he was ordered to do. Even his mother had endlessly nitpicked - at least until she got sick. Now they were more like mother and son and less like master and servant. There was nothing they could do about the sixteen years they'd lost, however.

Knowing that the report had to get done, he began poring over individual reports, the current statistics list (those missing, dead, injured, and on active duty), and incurred expenses accounts. Even though he knew it was considered an honor to be compiling reports, out of the way of direct danger, it was boring as hell. Being out in the battlefields would have been so much more interesting, at least for a time.

Finally, finally it was done. He read it over one last time, his eyes coming unfocused. After realizing that it wasn't worth it, he folded it and stamped it with the Dark Mark seal. Glancing around the space, he _Evanesco'ed_ the balls of parchment that littered the floor. One last double-check of order and he left, making sure all the protective spells were activated.

He pulled his heavy wool cloak closer as he walked briskly down the dank passageway, whispering the word to renew his warming charm. Lately, it had become safer not to heat the mansion as the Ministry was more likely to attack if there were signs of life. Of course, being underground did not help matters either.

Upon reaching the end of the passageway, he pushed open the trapdoor and entered the smaller of the first-floor drawing rooms. It had once been one of Draco's favorite rooms of the entire house. His parents were reluctant to enter as it was less flashy than the rest of the house, so he'd always been able to get away from everything here. Cream-colored silk curtains hung from curtain rods with elaborate scroll-work at each end. The chairs, sofa, and settee were tastefully upholstered in earth-toned suede and leather. In the far corner was the only acquiescence to wealth. A proud armoire stood, paneled in rich mahogany with leaded-glass windows displaying a small selection of the Malfoy family silver and crystal. All the other rooms in the house dripped with objects that signaled "money" to any viewer. There was always some new silver bowl, crystal salad-plate, diamond pendant, or expensive art piece crawling out from a corner.

But the small drawing room was simpler – partially because it was the only room not caught up in the newly-married-Narcissa-Malfoy's extensive redecoration and partially because Narcissa didn't like the north-facing windows and refused to enter.

Every time he entered this room now, though, Draco felt ghostly fingers brush over the mark on his inner forearm. For it was here that he had been initiated. His parents and his Lord knew of his attachment to this room, and found it the most suitable room in the house. The Dark Lord personally had burned the Mark into his skin, invoking the words that slowly and painfully marked one forever. His father held his wrist to prevent him from pulling away. He hadn't been able to help screaming – and the only thing that prevented his Death-Eater relatives from making his life into a personal hell was the fact that Crabbe and Goyle had howled louder. Not that his father or Aunt and Uncle Lestrange or any of the others showered him with gifts anyway.

Shuddering slightly, he hurried out of the room. He paused momentarily in front of the French doors leading to his father's study. He knocked. "Come in," came the cold voice from inside.

Merlin, how he hated his father. All he'd ever wanted to be was a good son, to uphold family traditions. Instead, he could never please the man who called himself a father. Fathers should play games with their children and take pride in their achievements. One time in particular came to mind – _it was the first real day of summer, and he was about eight. He could barely sit still and his focus on the task he had been set was non-existent. His father came in and saw his son's papers full of scribbled pictures of the outdoors and the abundant mistakes. The elder Malfoy had actually conjured a belt and brought it down across his son's back several times before the tutor finally drew up the courage to step in. Of course, the tutor had been fired and Draco had been sore for days._

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. "Father, I have the report you needed."

"Yes, yes, put it on the desk there. You ought to have been a bit faster. See that you are next time!"

"Of course, Father. I'll just be going then." He left the room as quickly as possible, leaning his forehead against the wall once he was safely out with no more comments from his father. Why did he have to be the misunderstood son of one of the wealthiest families in the Wizarding world? Or rather, the misunderstood son of one of the most reviled families – even money can't buy loyalty from some people.

Slowly, he made his way up the polished mahogany stairs, habitually running his hand over the rail to check for dust. Of course, there wasn't any. There never was. The Malfoys were, after all, the perfect pure-blooded family. There wasn't any trouble within the family – no dust accumulated in any corners.

Softly, he knocked on his mother's door. "Mother? May I come in?"

From inside, he heard the faint whisper. "Of course, Draco."

Entering, he saw his mother propped up in a mound of pillows, wrapped in a fluffy robe and with the sheets drawn up to her knees. She was pale and looked small and lost in the large bed, a tiny ship in a large sea. Her blonde hair fanned around her face giving her an air of helplessness that had never been associated with Narcissa Malfoy during her glory days.

"You look good today, Mum. How are you?"

"As well as can be expected."

Draco sighed, sinking down onto the chair beside his mother's bed. He ground the heels of his hands tiredly into his eyes and was silent.

"Draco, are you all right? Is your father…?"

He shook his head. "I… no. Everything's fine. I didn't get the report done as quickly as he'd expected."

"I'm sorry. Your father–"

"No, Mother, please. You don't need to worry yourself with my problems. I can never get used to the pain, but I will learn to live with it." Both the physical pain – and worst of all, the mental anguish. Oh yes, the beatings had gotten out of hand on a few occasions… a broken nose after his second year, several long scars across his back from beatings with various straps and ropes, an occasional broken rib, et cetera. But every child needs attention, needs to be praised and loved. Draco had grown up with an abusive father and a cold, distant mother, far from loved. Rather, he'd been given expensive education from a variety of tutors, eaten plain meals alone in his room, and…

Narcissa drew up the sleeve of her robe, exposing the Dark Mark on her forearm. "You must uphold the family honor, Draco. Now, if you could please leave me. I'm feeling a bit weak."

Recognizing the dismissal, he got up and stalked out sullenly. His own room, just down the hall, was one of the few places where his father had never laid so much as a finger on him. As a matter of fact, he would be surprised if the elder Malfoy had ever even set a foot inside.

Surprisingly, there were a few acquiesces to the fact that a teenage boy lived here during the summer months. The desk was a bit cluttered with a stack of old schoolbooks, quills, and spare parchment. Although made, the bed was certainly not neat. All the servants had either quit or been fired when the Malfoys had to learn to fly under the radar so as not to get caught by the Ministry. The walls, however, were devoid of the typical posters, photos, and mementos of life collected by almost everyone.

Draco collapsed onto his bed, barely registering the pain in his foot from kicking the bedpost. He rolled onto his side, curling into a ball, making himself as small as possible, as if that could somehow help him avoid the mess of his life. For what a mess it was; how far from his early teenage fantasies of having a new girl hanging off his arm every week, the wealth of his family at his fingertips, and no responsibilities to speak of.

But oh, how quickly responsibility had bitten, and he felt a marked man. Almost as if… something was breathing down his back, waiting for the slightest slip, the merest provocation to attack. He knew that once that – thing – received the appropriate aggravation, he was dead.

When you're sixteen, there is nothing more frightening in the world than to realize that your life is purposeless. _After all_, he thought grimly, _what purpose have I served? I've been an outlet for my father's anger, a way for my mother to take out her unhappiness, and a paper-shuffler for our Dark Lord. What good will any of that be?_

_-----_

The wind swept over the bare moor, whipping the hooded black robe around the lone figure. He stood over a patch of newly-turned-over earth, running his eyes over the inscription on the unadorned granite headstone.

_Draco Malfoy_

_5 June 1980 – 18 August 1998_

_R.I.P._

"We really weren't so different, you and I," Harry whispered. "We just walked different paths."

_**Author's Note:** Well, what did you think? My goal was to portray Draco-the-teenager, not Draco-the-evil-death-eater. Did I succeed? I like to think that Draco is wholly misunderstood, that he's really just attention-starved and has never learned any other way to treat people._


End file.
